A Little Bit of Hell to Follow Through
by cupcakekiller12
Summary: Joan Constantine is everything you'd think she'd be and everything you wished she wasn't. You could say she is constantly fighting her own demons on a physical and figurative level, and she'll fight yours too...given the right inspiration. (Aka as the gender bent DC universe from Constantine's perspective, that no one asked for, needed, or wanted but I created anyways)


The office was probably supposed to feel like a warm inviting environment, with its fall scented air and strategically placed furniture. There were no objects placed on any open surfaces though, everything was either made of plastic or were reminders of what _could_ be there. Joan chuckled a little as she shifted her position of the armchair she was assigned to be in at 10am every Tuesday, Thursday, and whenever she decided to be problematic.

They didn't trust her - well anyone in this madhouse really. The professionals tried to hide it and for the most part they were successful. They had everyone in this little operation under the impression that they cared. It didn't fool Joan though, as her friends had figured out a long time ago, it was very difficult to fool Joan Constantine.

Finally, after around five minutes of waiting, a middle aged man walked into the room. He had a faux smile gilding his true expression. The usually tidy black hair peppered with grey strands was normally pushed back behind forehead. Instead it almost covered his eyes before he brushed the strands behind his ears. The clean shaven face was also ignored today, opting for more attempt at a beard.

"Was it Charlie or Buford?" Joan teased, that earned her a look of contempt, she smiled, "Charlie doesn't like it when you take her things, you should know that." Everybody did.

"Nice to see you are on time for once, Joan." He pointed out as he took her file, a clipboard, and pen, and sat down in the seat across from her.

"And pleasure to see you aren't," she retorted without skipping a beat, "for once."

He sighed and skimmed through the notes, "You haven't said a word worth mentioning for the past three sessions." His grey eyes looked up to her, "The nurses say that you had a call from your boyfriend around that time-"

"Ex," she corrected, "we're kind of going through a rough patch at the moment." Her accent slurred her words a little bit. In truth, Joan would admit that, that was the first time in months Zaatar had spoken to her, and she didn't care to tell what he had to say about her admittance to the psych hospital.

"Ah," he nodded, "would you like to tell me what he talked to you about?"

Constantine bit her lip, folded her arms in front of her chest and averted her gaze, "He called to tell me I'm a coward, amongst other things." There was a bitterness in her tone as she said the words. When she said they were going through a rough patch, that was a bit of an understatement. They hadn't talked in months, at least not directly anyway. That phone call was the first time Joan had heard from Zaatar since their fight in May. It was a reminder as to why she was in here in the first place.

To escape.

"Do you believe him?" Lestrade questioned as he wrote something down, Joan noticed it more because he was writing the wrong hand.

"I mean," the short blonde haired woman shrugged, "I'm here. I don't have to be. I'm far beyond any of your help, but here I am." Joan had willingly admitted herself here a month after breaking up with Zaatar. She knew that it was a fool's endeavor to think that it would actually help, as her life was a schizophrenic's delusions of grandeur.

To be fair though, in the doctor's defense, sometimes not even Joan could believe half of the shit she has been through was even humanly possible.

Her sitting position fell further into the stiff leather chair, "Be honest with yourself, doc," Joan ran one of her hands through her hair. It was getting too long again, but the doctors wouldn't let her get it cut and she didn't trust any of them enough to mess with her hair. "I'm not here to get better. I'm here to avoid my problems by pretending I have ones that can be treated."

There was a quizzical look on Lestrade's face as he tried to comprehend the words that were coming out of Joan's mouth. His hand was writing more frivolous now, the sound of the pen hitting the paper was too loud to ignore, "Do you mind telling me what those so called 'unsolvable' problems.

A smirk appeared on the British woman's face as she eyed the desk in the corner, "Depends," she chuckled, "How much alcohol do you have in those locked compartments in your desk, love?"

The House of Mystery was quiet tonight, as it usually was aside from the wheezing of the floorboards and the hum of an unnamed energy that enveloped the house at all times. Joan could only describe it as...homey, protective, and of course — mysterious in nature. She had gotten used to it, but there was never a moment that she forgot it was there.

It told her that she should've been asleep by now. The hum reminded her that the glass of scotch was empty for the fifth time that evening, soon to be morning and that downing another glass would not be in her best interest for when she woke up. Joan didn't worry much about the hangover she was going to have though, that was what magic was for.

She wanted to go to sleep but her room was a graveyard she didn't feel like visiting at the moment. Of course there were other rooms she could have slept in; the House of Mystery was an infinite space, full of things you needed, wanted, and things you would eventually need and want, even if you didn't quite know it yet.

They weren't hers though, so the couch it would be.

Joan went to take another sip of her drink, but only empty air greeted her lips. She sighed, rubbing her tired face with her hands, "I thought we had an agreement. You don't take my alcohol and I don't—"

"That bargain only extends between the hours of twelve pm and ten pm." A monotone voice echoed throughout the house before a man who didn't exactly look old, young, and appearance looked like an approximation of what a human looked like. He wore a standard black and white suit, it wasn't expensive or cheap, but just was, "Go to sleep Joan."

"Since when are you my father?" The short blonde haired woman joked, most of what she said to people were jokes. It took a real listen to realize she was just hiding, from what? Nobody really knew. Joan never had a father. He died just after she was born. Her mother though...oh her mother survived all too well.

And then there was a pillow under her head and a blanket that smelled like a warm summer day. Constantine knew how it got there. This was the House of Mystery's way of saying, 'Go the fuck to sleep, Joan'. It reminded her of Zaatar. Funny how she was the one who broke things off this time and she was the one who was regretting it the most.

She told herself that it was for the best. They had done this before, each time they swore that _this_ time it was going to work. _This _time it was going to be different.

Except it never was.

Zaatar wanted Joan to be like Superwoman. Unstoppable, beautiful, good, merciful, and always willing to compromise. Joan was some of those things, but mostly she was just a bitch. A useful bitch, the Justice League's bitch when they needed her to be one. She was the person who could pull the trigger without hesitation, weigh the odds (however terrible they might be), and take chances they were always the worst life had to offer.

To the casual observer it might seem she has no regard for human life, especially her own, which may be right on a few occasions. Joan wasn't okay with the loss of life, but eventually she accepted the idea of impermanence. Everyone died, some later than others, but they died nonetheless.

Eventually Joan too would die, not for lack of trying.

After a few hours of sleep, the phone rang, Joan's, not that she was expecting a call this early (late?). She didn't look at the caller I.D, mainly because she hadn't named anyone on her contacts. Constantine didn't feel the need to, as she always picked up no matter who it was. Whether it was Bri scolding for last night's heinous actions, or Zaatar texting her to pick up the kids from school.

It didn't matter. She always responded. She always picked up.

After about fifteen seconds of lazily searching, Joan found her phone and eventually pressed the answer button, "Joan Constantine," she sighed into the mic. It was a black Motorola RAZR, a gift from Zaatar many moons ago that was supposed to be temporary, but it just ended up being Joan's primary form of communication with the outside world.

She didn't quite know the person on the other end, but she did, however, know _where_ they were calling from. It was from Zatanna and Orion's private school, St. Michael's. They caller stated that the two were in the headmaster's office, facing expulsion from the school due to nearly killing another student with homemade bomb. Joan knew that it wasn't a bomb, but it might as well have been if Zatanna had used the spell that Joan was thinking of.

As the secretary continued, Joan pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ease her headache, "I'm sorry that happened," she paused, "yeah, I'll be there...uh give me half an hour." Then the call ended and she was left to lay there and think about what to do. She could punish them, not that grounding Zatanna or Orion ever helped in the long run. She could call their father, Zaatar and ask for advice - ha, like that was ever going to happen.

She at least needed to pick them up from school...and maybe erase a few memories along the way.

After lounging on the couch for a few more minutes she eventually got up to take a quick shower, brush the alcohol breath out of her mouth, and change into outfit that smelled better than pub after a bar fight.

Two advil, a large glass of water, and quick spell later she arrived at St. Michales, dreading how she was going to explain why Zatanna almost killed a child. It didn't matter if they deserved it or not, playing the hero doesn't always get you a golden medal and a thanks from the people. Joan knew that better than anyone.

Thankfully Constantine managed to keep the headmaster from expelling her, barely she might add, as long as Zatanna never does magic on school grounds ever again, writes a formal apology to the child she hurt, and her father covered the damages to school and the child. Joan assured him that this will all be covered, in fact she could fix the school right now if he wanted her to.

The headmaster, knowing exactly what Joan Constatine did for a living, respectfully declined.

"It was just a barrier spell." Zatanna muttered, her shoulder-length dreadlocks swayed in the gentle wind.

"Yeah," Orion muttered, "and I'm the President of the United States."

The dark skinned girl prompted a question, "What was I supposed to do, let him get away with it?" Joan hated this question, because there wasn't a right answer. Sure, there was the answer that people wanted to hear, that bullies deserve whatever came to them. Nearly killing someone was not something Joan could condone though, even if she had done worse (much worse) before. Yes, Zatanna was walking her own path and Joan was not someone who could judge her for doing things that she thought was right. That did not mean that Joan was going to allow her to follow the same path as herself.

"If it means not accidently commiting first degree murder," Joan pretended to consider, "yeah, let him get away with it!" It wasn't the young girl's job to pretend to be a hero. She desperately wanted to be one, just like her extended family; however she didn't quite understand that being a hero meant that you had to make tough decisions. "Eventually he'll mess with someone who can fight back, but until that day," her icy blue eyes pierced through Zatanna's soul, "just leave it alone."

"You do it-"

They had just barely made into the car before Joan slammed her door a bit too hard and her tone even harsher, "_I _should not be the person you look up to, Z." There was a sudden drawback after she said the words, her eyes distant as if they were recalling too many memories to focus on the here and now. Joan shook herself out of it, "What I mean is that…" the warlock sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, the headache was starting to come back, "your actions have consequences. They may not be immediate, but eventually they come back to bite you in the ass."

"And yeah, Z, I do shit like that _all _the time when I need to win a fight." She was looking at the back seat now, making them feel like suspects in a police investigation, "but don't let that fool you into thinking I don't pay for it in the end." If she was really a bitch, she would have pointed as to why their father and her had broken off their relationship. It was because of her and everything she did. They didn't deserve to have that resting on their shoulders.

A silence came over the car, nobody what to say or what do, especially Joan. Emotions and punishments weren't things she dealt with very well.

After all…

How do you think she got here?

Perhaps old wasn't the right word to describe the outer frame of the House of Mystery. Decaying - no, it just had a feeling that maybe one day it would fall apart and create giant black hole that would destroy everything and everyone within fifty miles. Ancient was a word for temples, pyramids, and grandmas, not a house with a few stained glass windows.

Odd.

Odd would fit.

It never appeared in the same place twice, neither would it disguise itself to blend it, but it never stood out either. Nobody questioned the big, almost mansion like house that randomly appeared out what felt like thin air.

The paint on the sides had discolored to a point where not even Joan knew the original shade name. She had lovelying called the odd tone, '_Haunted house with a touch of possession and a sprinkle of death just to even it out_,'.

The windows, even the ones that appeared to be boarded up felt like eyes, dozens of eyes pointed at anyone would like to stare back. It was a threatening glare though, it felt more like a curious child looking out at a world they did not fully understand.

For some it was just an abandoned house the city planned on demolishing at one point, but just forgot about in a pile of paperwork. Others would see it as a haunted palace of nightmares, ghosts, and goblins. Teenagers and foolish children would comprehend it in a game in which they would tell the youngest to go up, knock on the door, and wait for some serial killer to open it and take them inside like the rest of their victims.

For Joan...it was home.

She parked in cracked driveway, letting herself be jostled by the bumps and embraced by the protective shadow produced by the house. To anyone else it might have seemed ominous, but there wasn't anything to be afraid of, at least not if you were on speaking terms with Joan. She was the owner of the House of Mystery, but it in a cliche sense it felt like the House had chosen her. Perhaps it was a fool to trust a woman such as Joan, but somehow it worked. Somehow they fit together, like two peas in a pod.

Joan was strange and the House even more so, so perhaps it was fitting.

Its manifestation of the was standing just outside of the door on the rickety old porch with a neutral expression as always on his face, "Joan," he said immediately before looking at the two children following in tandem behind her, "Zatanna, Orion, is there anything I can help you with?" His almost robotic responses were comforting.

The short blonde haired woman casually waved in her usual dismissal way as she walked in. The house took her coat, keys, and pushed aside her scuffed and barely held together by a hope and prayer leather dress shoes. They disappeared from view, but Constantine never worried about finding them, for the House always provided when she needed it to.

"Could I get something to eat?" Zatanna asked and Orion echoed in agreement. They had missed lunch due to...unavoidable conflict. Soon the two had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two juice boxes, and some grapes.

Zatanna and Orion were, siblings, obviously, but if you didn't know any better some would think they were twins. Although Orion was almost a foot shorter than Zatanna, there was no denying their relation. The chocolate toned skin, thick equally dark natural hair that both treated differently. Zatanna liked to have braids, although the style would change and the length would differ, the girl loved her braids.

Orion buzzed down to within half an inch of his scalp.. He had grown an afro before, back when he was in elementary school, but after a couple of rough encounters with the neighborhood bullies and few magic spells gone awry, Zaatar gave him the choice. Orion willingly agreed.

Joan used to drive them to school, for a long while after Maruice's death those kids were her kids. She would make them breakfast, lunch, dinner, read them bedtime stories, babysit, and even came to career day once or twice (with the Justice League, because no other kid ever could say the Justice League came to their career day).

She had missed this, not that you would ever catch her admitting it. Joan missed being able to care for someone other than herself.

Zatanna talked to Joan in between bites of her sandwich, "How long until you think dad figures out we've been suspended?"

Joan shrugged, "Two or three days," the man always figured out what was going on. Whether it was Joan doing something stupid, or his children acting aloof from their usual strict guidelines on magic, Zaatar always had an idea of what was going on, "He's on tour though, so he may just send an astral version of him." She picks up a book, one she had read plenty of times before, and sat on the leather arm chair by the always lit fireplace, "He loves you, but how else is he supposed to pay for that fancy private school of yours, huh, love"

"What do you think he'll do?" Orion continued, as if he didn't already know what was going to happen after the last time they (Zatanna) broke the rules their fathers had place down on them.

"Send you to Raven for the summer...again." The blonde warlock shrugged as she flipped the page, "He'll put you through the basics again...a lot of thoughtful mediation for sure though."

The two children groaned and started to complain.

Joan continued to ignore them. They dug this grave and now they get to lay in it.

_Knock knock_

The kids look up, but Joan raises her hand to stop them from answering the door without breaking concentration on her novel, "Give it a second, probably just another ding dong ditcher."

House appeared out of nowhere with a drink in his, "Awfully fast for one of those," he pointed out.

_Knock Knock Knock_

It was slightly faster this time, a little more panicked, rushed, as if they were looking over their shoulder for something. Zatanna and Orion give her an expected look.

Joan rolls her eyes, "Fine."

She stands up and the kids begin to rise also, with a simple flick of her wrist they quickly returned her their seats with a betrayed look on their faces, "You think I'm stupid enough to let you on a case with me?" The question was supposed to be rhetorical, but considering her past, it stood to reason as to why the children would reply the word.

"Yes," Zatanna quickly replied as she tried to overcome the magical invisible restraints tying her to the chair..

Her brother overlapped with her, but agreed with the statement as he said, "Well...yeah…"

Joan ignored them as she reached for an object in her pocket. In her line of work there was no telling of what was actually at the door. She was well beyond blind trust nowadays. Behind that door could be a demon, one those archangels, a justice league member she pissed off, or worse a lawyer serving her papers.

Or it could just be a college student with nowhere else to go.

The young woman stood there with a folder in one hand and a business card in the other. She had an aura of genuine panic, one that festered via happenings around her. Unexplainable happenings, where each other could technically be connected to another, but was it real or was it all just in your head?

"Are you Joan Constantine?" She asked, reading the card.

Joan's blue eyes scanned her up and down, "Depends on who is asking."

"Francine Chandler," she informed, "and I have a problem."

Joan let her in, a little reluctantly she might add, as kids these days always have 'unsolvable' problems. She said something along the lines of that some of her friends were missing and a couple of others that she knew but wasn't very close to. The warlock figured she would hear her out, maybe there was something she could do to help calm her down, maybe get her in contact with a real private detective that dealt with normal situations

"So," the warlock said as she poured some tea in a cup and pushed it to the other side of the table, "what seems to be the 'problem'?"

The girl took a sip, her eyes sparkled for a moment as the minor truth spell took effect, "My friends and I play the adventurer's league at local games shop by the university. We've been doing it since we've met during freshman orientation...however…" she placed the opened folder in front of Joan. It held copies of police reports, security footage still photos, and head shots of people she didn't recognize, "a week or so before midterms one of our players, Ronnie Malfort, went missing."

"Could've just been the stress," Joan pointed out as she opened a can of coke. Usually she would crack open a beer,but she wasn't allowed to drink hard liquor around the kids anymore, "I know some of my classmates bailed before they officially checked out."

"If he was dropping out, he would've told us." Francine assured, "They all would have told us."

Then were five more photos taken out of the folder, there wasn't really anything to correlate them aside from age and college names.

"Paige was reported missing almost a week after midterms ended," she handed her an image of a smiling dark skinned girl, it reminded her of Zatanna but without the goth choker, "Matthew disappeared after leaving our session a few days after her," a greasy haired boy with a varsity jacket from high school, he probably didn't make on the football team, "Beth walked into her dorm room a week after Matt and never exited according to security footage and her roommate." A blonde haired catholic girl who purposely hid the golden cross her mother gave her because she was always told she looked just like her and loathed it ever since she knew how to, "Collin went missing in between classes. He left English and never made it to Philosophy." A shaggy haired freshman, no idea what he wanted to do with his life, and a careless attitude towards life, probably was going to drop at some point if the drugs he was into didn't out him first, "And José, his car never left Graveyard Comics, but the engine was left running and there was no sign of a struggle."

Joan couldn't lie. It was suspicious. Magical, perhaps, but her realm of magic, maybe not, "And you came to me because of what? Aside from the police just believing that they ran away due to a mental breakdown and will eventually turn up or not."

Francine open her mouth and closed it again before looking around.

"Well, Francine?" The blonde haired woman shrugged, "what do you think is happening here?"

"It's Chas, everyone calls me Chas." She informed, "And what I think is going on here may sound crazy-"

"Everything is deemed crazy until it everyone sees it for their own eyes," Joan informed taking a longer sip of tea, "Shoot it."

"I think my friends are being kidnapped and taken into a real life version of DnD."

Joan almost spit out her own drink and afterwards she took a brief look at it, "I'm sorry." She coughed, "I'm gonna need something a little stronger to listen to this."


End file.
